


Silly Brainbox

by lameafpun



Category: Naruto
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Gender-neutral Reader, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Recreational Drug Use, modern character in konoha, ninja weed is super potent for plot reasons, not really mentioned but is relevant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:07:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28042890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lameafpun/pseuds/lameafpun
Summary: You find the strangest things in the places you don't expect them to be.
Relationships: Hatake Kakashi/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 58





	Silly Brainbox

“Sorry, what’d you say that was?” You point to the crumbly, green, plant-like things packed in little boxes on the corner of the merchant’s cart. They’re so small one could fit into the palm of your hand. It’s not a baggie but, even if the top wasn’t glass, the faint smell is unmistakable.

“Asa.” The merchant smiles at you. “Buds of the highest quality known from the land of lightning to the land of wind and sourced from the famous farms outside Kusagakure!”

She gestures to the cubby behind the little boxes on display and you read the little labels on each cubby numbly. Sherbet. White Widow. Northern Lights, Cherry Pie, Strawberry Cough — they echo faintly in your mind as the merchant continues to regale you with stories that assure the quality of her product. Quickly, you glance up and down the road, at the string of caravans that line the street and the people bustling from one cart to the next. You force your shoulders down as you take a step closer to the woman, ryo in hand.

“Can I get two please?”

You’ve shoved that embarrassing memory down to the depths of your subconscious where you repress everything by the time you return to Konoha. There has to be something about buying extracurricular…things on a mission. Some stipulation in your contract that says “illegal” and, while repression won’t work if you’re forced to go to a Yamanaka down in T&I, it’s enough to let you keep your game face on when you report to the desk-nin.

The walk back to your apartment is the most terrifying thing you’ve experienced in a while with the little boxes burning a hole through your pocket. Relief floods you as you finally cross your threshold. Showering and changing into a friend’s old shirt and loose shorts doesn’t take as long as it should, mainly because you clean only so much to get the top few layers of grime off. Now semi-clean, you make a beeline for the kitchen to dig through the cabinets. As any other well adjusted individual, you’d shoved those things that had looked like rolling papers into the depths of your silverware drawer — you’d bought them for a laugh.

Well, looks like it is you who is being laughed at. What an uno reverse card.

They’re thin and white and smell faintly sweet. You smooth a sheet onto the kitchen counter, the crutches in a pile next to the boxes. The scent is quickly overwhelmed by the harsh skunkiness that wafts out of the popped open box. You scrunch your nose. It’s familiar. Doesn’t mean you’re excited for the smell to stick to the walls of your apartment.

Packing it into the paper is a clumsy process. You roll it, finishing it off with a lick to the paper to seal it shut. That takes a few tries. Your mouth is dry and you have to put the paper to the side to swallow a few handfuls of water from the kitchen faucet. Finally you finish and hold it, pinched between your thumb and pointer finger, in front of you to stare at the, admittedly, shittily put together joint. After all that, you think as you look it over, this feels kinda underwhelming.

You shrug to yourself and hum, setting it down on the counter as you turn to dig back through the cabinets for some matches.

“Exciting mission?”

There’s a nail inside the silverware drawer. It isn’t long, maybe a centimeter of sharpness that pokes toward the spoons from the top — a leftover from that time you tried a home renovation project. You’ve nicked yourself on it a few times. Little annoyances. All in all, not enough to motivate you to fix it.

As you yank your hand out of the drawer, it carves a thin line down the palm of your hand. Barely a second later there is a butter knife sticking out of the wall an inch from where the voice came from.

“Ah, slow.” He tuts dramatically, shaking his head as he shunshins next to you. It’s casual compared to the way he grabs your hand. “You’ve gotten so rusty in your old age.”

“Excuse you, I’m youthful as fuck you fucking fossil.” He doesn’t respond, intent on the cut on your palm. His hand is warm. “Oh, for — lemme!”

You run a fingertip of green medical chakra over the cut. With Kakashi pinching it together it seals shut easily. He traces the line gently, as if making sure it’s really closed, and you repress the shiver the contact elicits. After a beat, he lets go of your hand.

“Always so rude.”

You slump, leaning your hip against the counter’s edge. “Today was supposed to be relaxing.”

“The last few weeks of relaxation wasn’t enough? Ah, so ungrateful.”

“Las - we can’t all be as prestigious and perfect as the Copy-nin.”

“I have to live up to the expectations of my cute peers!” His protest is glib.

You make a disgusted noise and snatch the joint off the counter. Fuck it, fire release it is and if your apartment goes up in flames it’s Kakashi’s fault. “Shove it up your ass. And put my chair back!”

With that, you stomp into the living room. That is, you take about ten steps into the apartment and collapse onto your couch. It’s old and worn and the most offensive shade of puce but it also happens to be the comfiest thing you’ve laid down on in weeks. You fold your legs underneath you, criss cross applesauce style, and balance the joint on your knee as you flip through the seals.

“That seems like a bad idea.”

“Your - “

“ - face seems like a bad idea.” His smirk is audible.

The urge to stop in the middle of a seal to squint at him is overwhelming. If he’s gonna sass he better have put your chair where it’s meant to be.

You take a peek at the kitchen. It is not.

You look up, in the middle of the second to last seal, and are greeted with a box of matches about a centimeter from your nose. Your eyes cross.

“Uh.” While you try to mash your chakra out of the fiery-doom-meteor shape you’d molded it into, Kakashi swipes the joint off your knee. “Hey!”

He’s still looking it over when the doom chakra is finally forcibly squeezed back into your coils. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds but in genius-ninja time it may as well be an hour.

“Thaaaaank,” You lean in and pluck the joint from his fingers, “you.”

“You’re welcome.” His tone is flat, a regular customer-service kind of voice void of even the dryest of sarcasm. It’s just nihilism and existential pain with a nice helping of ennui. 

“I retract my thanks.”

“So hostile!”

Your sigh is so extended it sounds painful. Kakashi, friend that he is, doesn’t even look concerned as you empty your lungs and rid your alveoli of every single atom of oxygen. No, he looks more interested in the now burning end of the joint.

“Thank fuck that lit. Oh, wait.” You direct an apologetic look at him. “Hey, this shit’s pretty, uh, pungent? You may wanna clear out.”

Against your recommendation, he settles himself on the couch. You curl slightly toward him. “Isn’t it a cigarette?”

“Nnm,” You put your lips on the joint, take a drag, let it soak in, breathe out a response. “Today was supposed to be relaxing.”

Every spoken word is accompanied with a curl of smoke that escapes from the corners of your lips. You don’t miss the way Kakashi watches. He’s relaxed against the cushions but his gaze is warm on your skin and it makes your stomach do flips. It’s post-mission giddiness, you swear.

“Haven’t you been to Kusagakure?”

His brow furrows. “Mm.”

“Well,” You gesture aimlessly with the joint, “there was this lady selling asa — which was weird, never thought I’d find wee — uh, it here but, uh — yeah, found this lady selling asa and . . . and . . . oh wow. Oh, no.”

He reaches for the joint, tension relining his frame. “What - ?”

“No no no!” You try and wave him off, but you put a smidge too much pizzazz into the motion and nearly fall off the couch. “It’s - this is supposed to happen. Like, uh, booze. Have you really never . . . ?”

His nose scrunches behind the mask and, yeah, that’s valid. 

“Right. This is just way stronger than I thought it would be.” A giggle floats to the ceiling. “Like being drunk, but no hangover!” You make a face and make a so-so motion with your hand. It keeps on making that see-saw motion even after you try to stop moving your arm. You find the movement fascinating for an inappropriate amount of time before remembering the vague outline of what you’d wanted to say. “Kiiiiiiiiiinda.”

It wasn’t a very extensive outline.

Your cheeks heat as the silence drags on. While lucidity is slowly leaking out of your brain and your stomach is dipping and floating like you’re on a roller coaster, it isn’t going fast enough to absolve you of all embarrassment. Still, the smoke soaks into you quicker than you expected. You take another hit, playing back the past minute in your mind and forcibly trying to zen yourself out.

“Supposed to be relaxing.” You scowl. “Kaaakaka - kakk — damn, why is your name so hard? Kaa-kaa-shi, there, fuck, wanna hit?”

He looks at the joint, at you.

“Don’t have to.” You shrug.

The joint disappears and, abruptly, Kakashi is coughing. In any other instance, you’d find the sight of smoke erupting through the fabric of his mask much funnier.

“Wh - that wasn’t a challenge?”

Time stretches, bends, wanes, but only half of that is the asa. The other half is hysteria because it still sounds like he’s about to hack up a lung and he should be fine because he’s a jonin. But you’re not entirely sure, and that makes the bottom drop out of your stomach. You hiss obscenities.

What makes the most sense in the moment is to try and do CPR and/or the Heimlich maneuver. You swing a leg over his thighs, balance yourself on his lap, and wind your arm back. His one visible eye, slightly shiny with tears, widens.

“Please don’t die!”

Your hand lands on his chest with a meaty thump and it does, to your relief, shock him into taking a breath. Which probably isn’t how the Heimlich maneuver _or_ CPR is meant to work. You did it the idiot way. The Kool-Aid man, bust in through the way because stronk way.

The idiot way is very labor intensive. Your hand hurts.

“What happened to the medic training?” He wheezes. You can practically feel the rumble of his voice and it’s almost unfairly nice. There’s also that faint, yet aromatic scent of weed on his breath.

“Ooh, you’ve missed my business hours.”

“Your Will of Fire,” The capital letters are audible, “is lacking.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Instead you feel around the couch for the joint. “Where’d you - aha.”

It’s laying on the cushions next to your knee, discarded but still burning. Somehow.

The end you put in your mouth is vaguely damp and that’s a thought you’re not sure you want to linger on, so you take another hit. But your eyes wander. They wander as you come to realization that Kakashi’s face is closer than it was a minute ago. It’s the closest he’s ever gotten, actually. And it’s . . . pretty. _He’s_ pretty. Handsome, too, but most of all he’s pretty. If this is only a quarter of his face then he must be a total knock out all together, with his smooth skin and strong jaw that his mask clings to, and his thin brow that arches wonderfully when he’s sarcastic, and the outline of a nose you want to poke (valiantly, you resist that urge). His eyes, though. Half your thoughts are slowly being consumed by hazy, butter-mindedness, but his eyes (well, eye) are wonderful and dark — cool, calm, and collected. There’s a look in it you can’t quite decipher and that’s a whole new epiphany-level of embarrassment — that’d he’d been gazing steadily back at you while you blatantly ogled.

As soon as you turn your head to breathe out the smoke, the room spins and a wave of sensation floods you. It fills you up like a balloon. Only his hands on your hips (when did those get there?) stop you from floating away. Surprisingly, he doesn’t shove you off. The thought that your violation of his space is met with graciousness flattens the abrupt wave of giddiness.

“Whoops.” You say belatedly. Apologies stick in your throat. The next best thing is an enthusiastic pat on his cheek and an offer of free food. “I bought snacks, by the way. It all kinda tastes better with asa. I mean, obviously, munchies, hungry, so everything tastes better just from that, but it’s just a chicken and the egg sorta thing when you get down to it. I think.”

Kakashi hums as you ramble. With that half lidded gaze and relaxed set to his shoulders, he more resembles a cat rather than his iconic summons.

“Munchies?” His mouth moves underneath the mask. It’s only because of the lack of distance that you can see every little contour on the dark fabric and the indent when he parts his lips to form that long “u” sound. This close, it’s like the illusion of a reveal of whatever’s underneath and it’s as enchanting as seeing the true thing itself.

_This better not awaken anything in me._

“That sounds hazardous.”

The changing shape of the mask might as well be a magnet with the way your eyes follow.

_Oh no, it’s awakened. It’s very awakened._

“Yeah.” Your voice is distant in your ears. “Just one of those things that come with w - asa. Munchies is the big thing. The sex part is the other.”

There’s another pull deep in your stomach as the world tips. They’re coming a little faster now. You curl into yourself slightly, sway, and the tightening of the hands on your hips is only a little delayed (wait, what had you said?).

“I didn’t mean that in a weird way, I swear.”

His hum is level but his cheeks are flushed, lightly pink. The cheek you can see, anyway. “Is that what you were doing on your vacation? Next time I should go with you, just so our reputation doesn’t suffer.”

Your head falls forward, thunking lightly against his chest. He lets you. You can’t tell whether it’s embarrassment or just him that’s making your skin burn.

“Fuck you, Hatake.” The cloth of his vest muffles the obscenity, but you don’t doubt that he heard you. Oddly, he doesn’t respond. He lets you (he’s doing a lot of that lately) lay on his chest as the world tilts and tilts back, retaining that usual Kakashi silence as you relax (finally) further and further into him.

Some time in the middle of a tilt that makes you shiver, he taps your hand. It’s the one holding the joint. He slips it from between your fingers without much resistance and with your newly freed hand, you hug him. It’s not an overly great hug — your other arm is smushed between your chest and his and the arm attempting a hug can’t get between his back and the couch cushions — but he shakes, and reciprocates as well as he can.

You’ve just started to lean into the hug when you hear cloth, and then there’s a light weight on the top of your head. It takes his chest expanding and the rekindled scent of weed to clue you in, and you nearly look up before remembering yourself. Abruptly, you feel horrible.

“I - “

“Was that an offer?” In your mind’s eye you can see the smoke rushing out between his lips at the question, nonchalant and even toned even as he tenses.

“What.” His hug loosens. Yours tightens. You consider pushing yourself off to look him in the eye but the mask is still laying on your head. “It wasn’t - it wasn’t _not_ an offer.”

There’s a low, sudden inhale just above you and then your face is being tilted up. You squeeze your eyes shut.

Too slow. A flash of pale skin and a beauty mark is branded on the back of your eyelids.

“Your mask.” When you speak, your lips brush against skin. His hitched breath echoes in your ears. You can’t entirely blame the natural, weed-induced sway for the way you lean forward and try your damnedest to mold your lips to his.

He pulls away, shoulders shaking. Maybe your heart would’ve splintered because he’s laughing but the smile on his uncovered face steals the air straight from your lungs. Still, you huff.

“Just didn’t want you to kill me when we wake up tomorrow.”

His laugh eases, eyes soft — he’s taken off the forehead protector, too — and his face relaxes in a smile that showcases impressively pointy teeth. Kinky. “I trust you.”

If he hadn’t kissed you then you think you would have started crying.

The sleep shorts are baggy. They’re adjusted without too much trouble, even with shaking hands, but your legs have fallen asleep and it’s all you can do to lift yourself using your grip on his shoulders. Kakashi’s having his own struggles. His wrist bumps against your core as he jerks the zipper on his pants around, growing slightly more frustrated with each failed attempt, though he has managed to get his vest open. Even though most of this is your fault you have to pull away from the kiss to laugh at his growls. Of course, that’s when he finally vanquishes the zipper. Apparently he’s been going commando, which is interesting. It’s a delightful little factoid you file away for later thinking, when you can’t feel him brushing against the skin of your inner thigh. He’s blisteringly hot and velvety and leaves a wet trail of precum as he ruts against you, eyelids falling shut as his head falls back against the back of the couch.

“S - n - wait!” You hiss. Need, sharp and hot, throbs low in your core. Being wanted is nice but he’s getting too far ahead without you.

Your arm slides between your bodies to grip his dick — to more properly direct it. He yelps, his fingers digging into your hips, and maybe your grasp was a bit tighter than you mean it to be. It matters less when you rock over the head of his cock, coating it with arousal, and moans fill the living room. The tendons in Kakashi’s neck strain as you tease him. At this point you think you’re dripping down your thigh.

“Kakashi.” You whisper. “ _Kakashi_.”

He heaves his head off the back of the couch, your name leaving his lips in moans, half lidded eyes hazy with lust. Yours probably look similar.

You haven’t let go. He bites at his lip helplessly when you squeeze but that look is nothing compared to the one you get when you finally sink down. His mouth falls open, exposing pointy teeth, and it looks like he can’t decide where to look. As you lower yourself, centimeter by centimeter, his gaze shifts. It’s indecisive, flicking between your face, where you’re connected, and an area beyond your shoulder when focus slips from his fingers and it feels too good. When he does that, you squeeze, and can feel the way he twitches inside you.

It’s a stretch, one that dances on that edge of uncomfortable. You can’t entirely control the whimper as you take him, or the involuntary way you squeeze as you fully seat yourself. All the nerves in your core are lighting up like Christmas lights. The wetness dripping down the inside of your thigh is probably soaking into his pants. You wonder if they’ll smell like you later, wonder if Kakashi will think of you when he has to wash them. The thought makes you tremble. The shirt you’re wearing — his old shirt — had been leeched of his scent for a while. Will it smell like him after (will he stay long enough for it to?)?

You nose the front of his mesh shirt, and breathe. Metal, dog, and that nature-y Konoha scent. And, fainter, the vanilla cake fragrance of old books. You wonder if there’s a scene in Icha Icha like this.

“Will I have to say please?” (There’s definitely an Icha Icha scene like that)

It takes a few moments to put your thoughts together. “Hm?”

“For you to move.” However flippant he tries to be, you can hear the desperation.

“Mm, no. I’m gracious.”

“Ah, thank you.”

 _Lazy_ , you think to yourself fondly as you tense your thighs to lift. You run into a problem immediately. 

“Uh. Huh. This — “

“What’s wrong?” The desperation is a little clearer.

“My legs aren’t working.”

You’re not even looking at him — you don’t have to. You can feel the laughter trapped in his chest, making him shake.

“Shut up.”

He does not shut up. Your demand makes it worse. Sincere laughter pours from him and you can’t entirely wipe the smile from your face even as the fire burning at your skin grows hotter. Why does this make it hotter?

“Kakashi!” You grind down on his lap — that much you can manage — and he chokes. “I . . . I really can’t move. Please?”

“This doesn’t feel fair.” But his legs shift underneath you, widen slightly.

Your frown is smushed against his chest. “Tough ti - “

Even with potent ninja weed in his lungs, he’s absurdly strong. His fingers dig into the flesh of your thighs, lift you, and the first thrust drives the breath out of you. It does the same to Kakashi — his head falls forward to rest on yours and he groans. The second makes you fist the mesh of his shirt so tightly you don’t think you’ll ever be able to uncurl your hands. The third and everything after that blur together. It’s just the feeling of full, not full, and toe curling friction between the two.

Moans, sighs, and pants harmonize with the wet slap of skin on skin. With the angle of his head, every choked out grunt and growl goes directly to your ear as he bounces you on his lap.

Then, he gets a handle on the pace. One hand disappears from your thigh and you miss the harsh dig of his fingers in your skin for a second before his fingers graze your core. The long, low moan that pulls from you makes his hips stutter, only for a second, before he’s fucking into you harder. His fingers don’t stop moving. It’s a weird angle for him but he still manages to make your back bend, curling toward him. Your breaths are coming increasingly quickly and you can hear your heartbeat in your ears.

You keep squeezing him and his rhythm stutters every time. The stuttering and squeezing gets worse and your back bends as Kakashi hunches over you. He’s painfully close and twitching inside you as his fingers draw you closer to your edge — they’re moving so fast they’re practically vibrating.

“Oh, fu - “ It’s like a string has been threaded through your body and Kakashi is yanking down, making you seize. You come so hard, thinking of nothing but Kakashi, it feels like your stomach muscles are going to cramp. You think you ripped his shirt.

Your core hurts — too sensitive — and you sigh when his hand goes back to your thigh. His grip is wonderfully painful as he fucks you through the aftershocks, growling as you contract around him. Tears are slipping down your cheeks when he shudders and heat gushes inside you.

Scraping your brain back together is an effort. Your legs still don’t work and Kakashi has to carry you to your bed when his cum starts to leak out of you (his pants are, unfortunately, a casualty).

He stays with you when you ask him to, borrowing an old pair of pants to sleep in. The last thing you see before you fall asleep is his bare face.

When he leaves the next morning your sleep shirt smells like metal, dog, and old books.

**Author's Note:**

> essentially i had a dream of smoking w the dude except the joint was a roll of sushi


End file.
